


The Lord's Army

by penguin10598



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alexander Pierce is just the worst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Child Abuse, Cults, Emotional Abuse, M/M, Religion, Sexual Abuse, conflicting emotions, steve is surprisingly smooth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 01:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10820991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguin10598/pseuds/penguin10598
Summary: Bucky thought nearly ten years out would be enough. That having escaped, with only a shred of his dignity intact, but a whole lot of fight still left within him, would be enough. That freedom would be enough.orBucky escapes from a cult, meets a few friends and learns to live life





	1. Design

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still writing bye bye miss american pie i swear!!  
> I just got sooo busy with school. The good news is I'm officially done and no longer a high school student. It's scary but exciting too.  
> The cult in this is based SUPER heavily on Gothard and his practices, and a bit on the FLDS and some other cults, nonreligious and otherwise.  
> I'm not hating on religion as I am religious myself, simply just writing about the bad side of religion which does exist.  
> Enjoy (:

 

_Design_

_God has a precise purpose for each person, object, and relationship that He creates. As we understand and live in harmony with His design, we will discover self-acceptance, identity, and fulfillment in life._

                The first time Bucky met Alexander Pierce he was just a child, timid and small, holding his moms hand, hiding shyly against her side. A chubby cheeked face topped with messy dark hair that his mother had spent twenty minutes combing down that morning only for Bucky to grumpily run his sticky hands through it in defiance. Adorned in a dark red sweater he deemed, “Too scratchy.” He trudged along with his mother unhappily through throngs of people, making sure to drag his feet the entire time.

                This was grown up church. This wasn’t Sunday school, and this wasn’t meant to be fun. He had to sit still, and listen. Squirming just earned him a pinch to the side, sharp and unpleasant. Bucky was terribly bored, and didn’t want to be here at all. He felt even smaller than his own size, and his mother didn’t seem to notice.

                “Say hello, James,” His mother encouraged him, pushing him forward.

                He had just hardened his grip of her hand, looking up at her with an anxious expression, and mumbled a small frantic, “Mama?”

                The man had leaned down to Bucky’s height, his presence calm, but still commanding.

                “Your name is James?” He had asked.

                Bucky nodded, biting at his lip. He looked up at his mother who smiled approvingly at him, which gave him a bit more courage.

                “I think that’s a great name,” The man said. “A strong Christian name.”

                “Thank you,” Bucky murmured quietly, before shyly pressing his face against his mother’s side burrowing into the fabric of her dress.

                “I’m sorry,” His mother apologized with a light laugh. “He’s shy.”

                “Ah, we’ll have to work him out of that,” The man said, with a charming chuckle. “For the Holy Spirit. God’s gift does not want you to be afraid of people, but to be wise and strong, and to love them and enjoy being with them. That’s Second Timothy one verse seventeen. Can you remember that, James?”

                Bucky had nodded, face still burrowed in the fabric. His mother had made a disapproving noise before dislodging him from her side.

                “Yes, sir?” The man inquired with an authoritative raise of an eyebrow.

                “Yes, sir,” Bucky repeated softly, eyes downcast.

                “Next time I see you I’ll be asking you to repeat it. So, make sure you remember it, James,” The man warns him, his voice vaguely threatening. Bucky was intimidated by most adults, but Alexander Pierce wasn’t just intimidating he was scary. Bucky was scared.

Bucky thought nearly ten years out would be enough. That having escaped, with only a shred of his dignity intact, but a whole lot of fight still left within him, would be enough. That going through college by himself, pushing himself to get through it, to make something of himself and allowing himself to make mistakes without fear of punishment without succumbing to the guilt that bubbled up deep inside his gut would be enough. That freedom would be enough.

 He didn’t think that nine years later he’d still be waking up in a cold sweat, body trembling, remembering the sharp sting of a disciplinary paddle, remembering the rough deep voice, instilling fear into his young mind, whispering lies to him, berating him, instilling fear in him. He didn’t think that he’d still be absolutely disgusted by his thoughts, to the point where the guilt completely ate at him, forcing food back up his throat, and keeping him awake at night, too fearful that he may not wake up. That he has sinned so much that God has finally decided to punish him how He sees fit. Damning him into the fiery pits of hell.

Or perhaps this is God’s punishment. The inability to eat, to sleep, to breathe steady. The inability to feel even a scrap of happiness most days. The years of being tortured, and abused in the name of Jesus Christ. Maybe, that was his punishment. His punishment for those depraved, debauched, sinful thoughts. Thoughts of human sexuality as a form of pleasure, rather than a way to reproduce, to breed, to create children to populate God’s army. Thoughts of homosexuality, one of the most depraved acts created by Satan performed by man to directly spite God.

Things Bucky has tried so hard to resist, but can’t. He just can’t stop himself from succumbing to his worldly desires. That being a big reason in his decision to leave; the search for free will. Not the free will gifted to him by God, and dictated by a man who claims to be His mouthpiece, but his own free will. Decisions for him to make on his own. He thought that years of this, of making his own choices on how to cut his hair, how to dress, who to have sex with would be enough to rid his psyche of Alexander Pierce’s presence standing behind him ready to strike.

Nearly ten years, and all the fight, all the fire, Bucky had left with seemed to be dwindling out. But Bucky was always too stubborn for his own good, he’s gotten enough chastising to know that much, and he found himself scheduling an appointment with a therapist. His final hurrah so to speak, before deciding if he should just off himself already, as that decision seemed to becoming more and more enticing each day.

“Mr. Barnes?” The door, adorned with a shiny silver plaque bold black letters spelling Dr. Potts, opened to reveal a slim red haired woman, with a friendly smile. “You ready for your appointment?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky coughed hesitantly, rubbing his nervous clammy hands on his jeans, before standing. He ducks his head nervously, hair falling in front of his face like a veil. He feels a bit foolish, standing in front of a woman, not that much older than him, yet still feeling like a small child. He chuckles uneasily at himself, trying to brush off that biting anxiety, and presents a friendly, but forced smile.

The woman laughed, not a mean or vindictive laugh, but a warm kind one, as she sat down in a plush navy chair, “Please, it’s Dr. Potts. I worked hard for the title.”

“I’m sure you did, Dr. Potts,” Bucky laughs along timidly, sitting down on the edge of an expensive looking couch. The dark blue upholstery was soft underneath his hands, as he rested them flat on the surface, and was adorned with white silk pillows leaning against both arms of the couch.

“This couch looks expensive,” Bucky mentions offhandedly. He feels slightly odd, sitting on a couch that looks more expensive than all the furniture he has in his apartment combined. He regrets the sentence as soon as it exits his mouth, and he really wishes he left his thought about a couch as just that, a thought.

The mindless things that come out of his mouth, are the most evil. He’s aware. He’s completely aware of the impurity of his heart. For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks…And the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in him.

“I’m not actually sure how much it was,” Dr. Potts says, a smile evident in her voice, but Bucky is much too embarrassed to look at her.

                “Would you like anything to drink, Mr. Barnes? Coffee? Tea? Water?” Dr. Potts asks.

                Bucky pushes his hair from his face, only to have it fall back in front of his eyes, again. He huffs, cheeks puffing up, and tucks his hair behind his ears. He shakes his head, and tries to clear his throat.

                “Are you sure? I’m going to make myself a tea,” Dr. Potts tells him, getting up from her seat.

                “Water?” Bucky asks.

                “Great! I’ll go get our drinks then,” She smiles, softly. She exits the room leaving Bucky alone, feeling like she took all the oxygen with her.

                He shifts uncomfortably, eyes gazing around the room. The large window, a tree leaning right in its view, yellow sunshine creeping through the glass, casting shadows of tree limbs on the wall. Crisp white paint, and a golden framed Stanford diploma. A large abstract painting makes the biggest statement. A piece that catches your eye. Strokes that look more like smudges, unintentional accidents colored in blues and grays with a little yellow. It showed a certain type of sadness. The sadness that comes from loss, from the want of something that is no longer attainable. 

                Dr. Potts returns placing a short round glass of water on the table that separates the couch and the chair from each other, with a kind, “There you are, Mr. Barnes.”

 She sets a white mug down in front of her, and takes her seat.

“You can call me Bucky,” Bucky says. “If you want to.”

“Do you want me to?” She asks, emphasizing the ‘you’ in her sentence.

“Yes, please,” Bucky answers shyly.

“Alright! How are you today, Bucky?” She asks.

“Been better been worse, can’t complain much,” He smiles lopsidedly. “Shouldn’t complain at all. Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

“Do you believe that?” Dr. Potts inquires.

Bucky takes in a sharp breath, eyes fixed out the window, “I have to. Believe that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s God’s will right? It’s supposed to happen. Doesn’t matter how bad it is,” Bucky replies glumly. “I guess.”

“You guess?” Dr. Potts asks, she tilts her head a bit and lifts an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to believe that, sometimes,” Bucky murmurs.

“Why not?”

“Because I,” Bucky stops himself from finishing his sentence, takes a sip of water, and takes a large breath. He contemplates if he should finish his thought. Caught between the need to tell the truth, to be one hundred percent truthful, and the need to hold his grievances, to not complain, to be pleasant at all times. Honesty wins out in the end, as Bucky figures that’s why he’s here, and nothing is going to get better if he isn’t being truthful. “I want to be angry.”

“What do you want to be angry at?” She questions.

 “At the situation. At what he did to me. It’s not right. It’s not. It was wrong. And I know that. I do. But,” Bucky trails off, releasing a shaky breath.

“He?” Dr. Potts asked.

“Alexander Pierce.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Potts says. “I’ve heard of his practices. How did you get involved with him?”

“My Ma,” Bucky answers with a slight smile. He loved his Ma he really did. “I don’t blame her, I can’t. She loved me, and my sister so much. She was just she was so scared you know? So scared. She just wanted what was best, for us. She didn’t want us to go to hell. And for someone who puts so much rank on Christianity, as she did, that’s like the highest compliment. I have a lot of good memories, some of my best, involving her.”

Bucky swallows, his mouth feeling dry and sticky. He wraps long pale fingers around the water glass, staring into the water as it sloshed up the sides of the glass; his hands shaking slightly. He took one small sip, the cold water doing nothing to quench the desert in the back of his throat.

“I, uh, didn’t have a dad. He and my mom got divorced right after my sister was born. I was five, when he left. And I think my mom was really ridden with a lot of guilt over that. We always went to church, when I was a kid. The normal kind, where Sunday school had games, and _Veggie Tales,_ ” Bucky chuckles. “That wasn’t bad, that was actually good. Fun. But, uh, my ma she heard about this man, Pierce, and his church. How they were doing wonderful things, spreading the word of Christ, leading by example, making fishers of men. She was real excited about it, too. So, you know he took us in. Let us stay in his house. Married my mom.”

“I mean, it’s not like she could have known he would ruin my life, right?” Bucky asks, placing more venom than he usually allows in his language, on the ‘he’ mentioned in his sentence.

“You are allowed to be angry, Bucky,” Dr. Potts tells him, her voice calm and soothing.

Bucky almost can’t help the amused scoff that exits his mouth, “Human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires. I don’t know how many times I’ve been told that.”

How many times he’d been screamed that exact phrase, over the smallest of things, as a young child, and then a teenager. After the most insignificant of disagreements between him and his sister, like how all children act towards each other. How many times he’d been spanked, with a belt, a paddle, anything that would leave a mark. Being forced to sit in the darkness of the basement alone not knowing when he would be allowed out. Quiet time, they called it; a time to reflect on your anger, and how to turn that worldly anger into righteousness for God.

“When you’re angry, what do you do?” Dr. Potts asks.

Bucky feels his right eye twitch involuntarily. “I don’t know. Pray?”

“Do you?” Dr. Potts questions, appropriately calling him on his fib.

 “Not so much anymore,” Bucky admits. “I just try not to get angry anymore, or redirect that anger into something else. I work out a lot. I go to the gym, see a trainer. Natasha. She’s… She’s great. Really great.”

“Yeah?” Dr. Potts laughs lightly. She pushes a stray strand of silky hair behind her ear. “Tell me about her?”

“Wow,” Bucky huffs a laugh. “I don’t know where to begin. Bright red hair, you can’t miss her with that hair. She’s beautiful, really. I was staring at her in the gym the day we met. I was running on the treadmill and she was lifting weights. I just, I couldn’t believe such a tiny woman could lift that much. I was stunned couldn’t look away. She caught me lookin’, and well.”

Bucky trails off into a bout of laughter, “She snapped, “What the fuck do you think you’re looking at?” right at me. I was so caught off guard I just froze; right there on the treadmill. Of course, that meant I fell right on my butt. It was… Embarrassing to say the least.”

“It sounds it,” Dr. Potts snickers, causing Bucky to flush up the back of his neck.

“She came up to me, helped me up and introduced herself to me. We went out that night. I got drunk for the first time with her that night. Off of vodka shots. She’s Russian and man she can drink,” Bucky tells her, eyes sparkling a bit as he recalls that night. The crowded bar full of bodies, of people dancing, and laughing, and just being free. The heat of the alcohol as it slid down his throat. The thump of the music as it moved through every part of him.

“How’d that feel?” Dr. Potts questions.

“Free,” Bucky tells her after a short moment of thought. “Until I woke up the next day, that is.”

“Do you drink a lot?” Dr. Potts asks.

Bucky shakes his head, his anxiety rising. “Nah, not so much. Me and Natasha go out sometime with her friends, but it’s not excessive or anything. I’m not some kinda alcoholic junkie.”

Though his voice was calm, and quiet his words were still brash and he doesn’t mean to snap at Dr. Potts like that, but he can’t stop his own guilt from coming out. Alcohol which leads to debauchery, and sin. The devil’s drink. Those who are drawn to the bottle, or to substances are those that lack the Holy Spirit. Those who are not tempted are filled with the Spirit. They have no demons needing to be cast out. Bucky was not like that. He never was. Not as a child, nor a young man. And Pierce tried his hardest to “cleanse” Bucky’s soul, by not allowing him to eat. He would force Bucky, as a kid, a mere child to fast. To build up the Spirit in him. To show him that the Spirit would keep him alive, and make him stronger. Pierce would force him to sit at the dinner table and watch as everyone else ate their meals. The plate in front of him empty, taunting him, and teasing him. He cried the first time, when he was eight. All that earned him was dish duty, and a spanking.

“I never said you were, Bucky,” Dr. Potts tells him kindly.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers remorsefully.

“It’s alright,” Dr. Potts smiles. “We talked about a lot today, yeah?”

Bucky nods, still feeling foolish about his words.

“Well, it looks like we’re out of time for today, but I’ll see you next week?” Dr. Potts asks standing from her seat. Bucky mirrors her, and stands to shake her hand.

“Next week, yup.”

“Alright,” Dr. Potts tells him walking him to the door,

“Uh, Dr. Potts?” Bucky asks, stopping Dr. Potts from opening the door.

“Yeah?”

“The painting on the wall? Who’s it by?” Bucky asks, still so enamored by the canvas on the wall.

“Oh, my friend Steve Rogers is an artist. That’s one of his pieces,” Dr. Potts answers joyfully. “He’s extremely talented. He volunteers here actually teaching an art class. If you’re interested, it’s Wednesdays at 5.”

“Maybe,” Bucky mutters noncommittally, though the idea does strike him with some interest. “I’ll see you next week.”

Bucky ascends the stairs of his apartment building making the five story trek to his floor. His apartment is a dump to put it kindly. Paint peeling off the walls, dark water spots on the ceiling, and the smell of mildew and must a constant no matter how many candles he burns. It’s not exactly like he’s making bank teaching Russian to a bunch of kids after school. It’s a blessing that he even ended up being able to get his Russian language degree. It required a lot of hard work, but mostly scholarships and a whole lot of luck if he was being honest.

He has to kick his rickety door slightly to get it to open. Grumbling to the door like it’s an actual person. When he gets inside, kicking off his shoes he notices Natasha sitting on his couch, flipping through the big blue binder holding his lesson plan.

“Oh,” Bucky says, stopping in the middle of his hallway. “Hi?”

“I thought you might want some company today,” Natasha tells him softly.

Bucky flops down beside her on the couch, resting his head on her slim shoulder. She runs slender pale fingers through his hair, speaking lowly to him in Russian. Sweet little words, and nursery rhymes she recalled from childhood. Just nonsense strings of rhymes that calmed his thoughts that ran rapidly through his mind like a jumble of high pitched white noise.

“Thank you,” He mutters.

“How was it?” Natasha questions.

Bucky sighs, burrowing his face further into her neck the scent of her shampoo, a fragrant pomegranate, calming his racing heart, “Really good. Dr. Potts is really nice.”

“That’s awesome, Bucky!” Natasha praises, smiling down at him.

“Just, it’s hard,” Bucky complains, a whiney grumble noticeable in his voice. “I don’t like talking about it, you know.”

“I know,” Natasha whispers.

She cups his face in her hand, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Her green eyes dark, and sparkling with emotions of admiration and love. “I’m proud of you.”

                “You shouldn’t be,” Bucky mutters. He has no clue why she would be. Not yet, at least. He’s still a mess, barely able to hold himself together. But at least he’s holding himself together? Even if it’s just by a thread, that’s got to count for something right?

                “None the less, I am,” She tells him finitely, shooting him a deadly glare. “And there’s nothing you can do about it, but stop trying. So don’t fucking stop trying.”

                “Okay,” Bucky says, his voice strained.

                “What do you want for dinner? I’m thinking takeout,” Natasha informs him, pulling her phone from her back pocket. “Pizza or Chinese?”

                “Pizza, please?” Bucky smiles.

                Natasha pushes herself up from the couch, and begins to dial the phone. There was something comfortable about the early evening light shining through the crooked blinds on the windows. Natasha’s body casting shadows on the beige wall, as she moved about the apartment. There was a warmth that bled into his body, a feeling that was so rare for him. A feeling of real love, and hope. Like maybe this is where he was supposed to be.


	2. Authority

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, unbetad all mistakes are mine  
> We meet Steve!
> 
> Trigger Warnings for past child abuse (look at end notes for more detailed description)

_Authority_

_God assigns various responsibilities to parents, church leaders, government officials, and other authorities. As we learn to acknowledge and honor these authorities, we can see God work through them to provide direction and protection in our lives. Honoring our authorities brings inward peace._

               Bucky liked his job he really did. He fought really hard to get where he was, and he doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s really proud of himself and how far he’s come. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like enough but he’s trying. And his students are a constant source of entertainment, of joy. Which should be expected by a bunch of children who are usually being forced into learning Russian by their wealthy parents. It was hard work trying to keep the kids entertained, but Bucky enjoyed it.

                “Have you been practicing your alphabet, Annie?” Bucky asks the pigtailed little girl sitting caddy corner from him at an impeccably polished dining room table.

                “Yes,” Annie answers with a large smile showing off her missing baby teeth.

                “Oh?” Bucky asks raising an accusatory eyebrow. “Have you?”

                “да!” Annie exclaims with a giggle.

                “Well, then let’s hear it, Miss Annie,” Bucky laughs.

                “A, Б, В, Г, Д, Е…”

                Days like this, sitting across from a student going over lessons, the air stuffy to the point where you can smell the dust. Particles of it dancing in the room if you look at it in the right light. Where time seems to move slower than normally as though you’re stuck in limbo, living inside a dream. These kind of days remind him of some of his better memories.

                Memories of him sitting across from his mother, book spread across the light brown wood of the kitchen table, with his name signed on the underside in magic marker. Going over his times tables and reciting Bible verses. The bright proud smile on his mother’s face every time he answered a question correctly. Her soft voice reading passages from history textbooks, regaling him with tales of great adventurers discovering new lands, as he listened intently soaking it all in.

                Just being allowed time alone with his mom, to talk to her and laugh with her. He felt safer with his mom, as though she could protect him from the ever looming presence of Alexander Pierce. Though, he knows through personal experience that that is not true. That his mother was made to feel just as small, and as powerless as he was made to feel, too.

                Bucky stepped out of the posh house clutching his blue binder against his chest. The afternoon weather was growing cold in the November autumn. Orange leaves falling off the trees landing in messy piles on the yellowing grass in the front yard, crunching under his leather shoes.

                Perhaps, it was the lesson and the nostalgia that came from it, or it could be just the time of year. The time where families get together, talk, and laugh as they remember pleasant memories from years past. The feeling of coming home to celebrate traditions past down from generations before; a sentiment that Bucky’s only felt vicariously through manufactured television families. Whatever the reason may be is causing Bucky to feel extremely blue. A different blue than usual. Not the kind of all-encompassing anxiety, and depression cause by past trauma, but the subtle sadness that hides behind every thought that would be pleasant.

                It’s the kind of sadness that Bucky can’t shake off. The kind that makes him drag his feet a little longer as he walks across the concrete. The kind that makes his heart heavy, and sink down from his chest to his stomach. The kind that makes his eyes blur over welled up with tears threatening to shed, sobs waiting, willing, to wrack through his body. A sadness that fills him with a sorrow that barely touches him, while encompassing him completely; a paradox.

                Returning home, to his apartment, lonely with only the comfort of worn down furniture to great him sent shivers of dread throughout his stomach. He finds his feet walking in the opposite direction. Away, from his apartment in a rundown part of town, and further to the city. To the psychiatric institute.

                He finds himself walking towards paint on canvases, and cloudy water in coffee mugs, wooden paintbrushes well-loved and thoroughly used leaning against the edge of the ceramic. Rough white paper littered with charcoaled stained thumbprints, and sketches of people, things, anything the imagination can conjure up and place on the surface. Art that stirs up precarious emotions, things that you can only express through such an abstract outlet.

                A hesitant hand hovering over the silver doorknob; a moment of contemplation. Unsure if he actually wants to do this. If he wants to put himself out there like that. Open himself up. He shakes his head, laughing at himself. If it’s bad, if he hates he’ll get over it. He can do this.

                He enters the room the smell of paint overwhelming and calming. There’s a man, tall and broad, tufts of blond hair stick up a top his head messy and not brushed, leaning down to talk to a dark haired woman painting at an easel. She points towards Bucky, dangling a slender finger in his direction. The man turns, tired eyes blinking sleepily at him, a friendly smile though plays on his lips.

                The tap of his shoes against the floor echoes in Bucky’s ears as he walks towards him. Daunting.

                “Hi, I haven’t seen you before. I’m glad you could make it,” The man speaks, voice deep and filled with honest joy. His smile real and friendly. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

                There’s something about him – Steve Rogers – that allows the tension in Bucky’s shoulders to fall away, and the nervousness that was biting at him to be alleviated. Something in those tired blue eyes drooping, yet somehow still sparkling, joyful. A contradiction that Bucky understood; pushing yourself to smile despite every ounce of your being feeling achingly drained.

"You're Steve Rogers?" Bucky gapes, flashes of the painting those sad blues and grays come to mind.

Steve smirks at him, tongue skimming over his bottom lip, "I sure hope I am, cause that's what I've been telling people my whole life."

"You did the painting in Dr. Potts' office," Bucky states.

"So, you're a fan?" Steve waggles his eyebrows, teasingly.

"I never said that," Bucky denies. "I could be repulsed. Having to stare at that monstrosity every week? I was thinking about changing therapists but no one else takes my insurance."

"Monstrosity?" Steve exclaims mock outage shown in his over exaggerated facial expression. 

"No, but honestly I really like it," Bucky tells him voice quiet and honest. "It's... Sad. Like the kind of sad you get when you want something, someone you can't have. Longing."

"Yeah," Steve chokes out, eyes shining with raw emotion. He has an easy smile, small but sincere. "Longing. That's a good word for it."

"My ma always told me wanting things you can’t have was selfish," Bucky adds on a distant bitterness evident in his voice. Any emotion that wouldn’t directly strengthen his relationship with God was an emotion that would not be allowed. Wanting things, coveting things, worshiping false idols. There were punishments implemented for those things, which were not approved by Alexander Pierce. If he did not agree with your emotional opinions… Bucky felt a shiver of fear run down his spine as he remembered the horror of punishment.

                “I mean you gotta try to be happy with what you got, but it’s pretty hard when you don’t gotta lot,” Steve Rogers speaks with a worn quality, like he’s lived through difficulties. As though he’s been worn down to the bone, torn down, and struggled through building himself back up again.

                Staring at Steve Rogers, in paint stained jeans and so much emotion playing on the other man’s face, Bucky isn’t sure what to say. He’s not used to people who are comfortable showing their emotions on their face. Natasha is not one for emotions, whether good or bad. She’s reserved and careful. She skirts around the edge of emotions like a dancer gliding on their toes. With the skill of reading another person’s emotions, and thoughts she then applies herself cunningly giving them the reaction that they desire.

                Bucky mulls over talking points, small talk has never being his strong suit. Finally he settles for a simple. “So, you volunteer here?”

                “Yeah, I teach art. You know, it’s therapeutic being creative,” Steve smiles, gesturing to the room. There are a few people scattered about the room, the dark haired woman in front of the easel, a sandy haired man a purple Band-Aid across his nose and his fingers caked in clay.

                “Well, teach me how to art then,” Bucky smirks. He makes his way, gliding on his feet, and perches himself on a stool in front of an easel. “Alright, so. What do I do?”

                Steve pulls up a stool and sits beside Bucky, leaning into his space. Bucky grins at him, and that has to be the best decision he’s made in a while, because Steve’s cheeks blush so prettily. A rosy pink that stretches to the tips of his ears. “Have you ever painted before?” 

                “No, my art experience is pretty exclusive to coloring books and crayons. Maybe the occasional paper snowflake,” Bucky laughs.

                “A paper snowflake?” Steve cocks his head slightly to the side, eyebrows furrowed creating a line between the two.

                “You serious?” Bucky gapes. “You’ve never made a paper snowflake?”

                When Steve shakes his head guiltily, Bucky takes it upon himself to grab a piece of thick white construction paper off the craft table, and a pair of scissors. He folds the paper in half and begins cutting little ovals into the creased paper. He explains what he’s doing much like how he teaches his students, and Steve listen ever so attentive. He’s got a pink lip between his teeth, chewing on it as he nods along to Bucky’s instructions.

                “Then just unfold it and yeah a snowflake.” Bucky opens up the paper to reveal a seemingly random design that did resemble a snowflake, enough to be considered one at least.

                Steve takes the snowflake from Bucky’s hand, holding it between his fingertips like a delicate artifact. He holds it up towards the ceiling squinting at it with great interest. He looks at Bucky face stoic and serious. His voice rumbles with facetious amusement as he speaks. “Well, God damn we got a real artist here, ain’t we?”

                “You’re picking on me?” Bucky accuses, snatching the paper snowflake from Steve’s hands. Perhaps he sounds a little too hurt as the dark haired woman turns and looks disapprovingly at Steve shaking her head and pursuing her lips before turning back to her painting.

                “He’s flirting with you,” She tells Bucky, an accent evident in her voice. Thick Eastern European, but with an Americanized edge.

                “Wanda!” Steve exclaims.

                “What? Is it not true? You think he’s a handsome man do you not?” She asks voice even, almost bored sounding. She hasn’t even looked away from her painting. Brush still stroking red lines of paint across the canvas.

                Bucky looks at Steve batting his eyelashes. A silent challenge of, “Yeah, Steve you think I’m a handsome man right?”

                “Well, I-I. I mean. He’s not ugly,” Steve splutters. Regret fills his entire body after the word vomit spews past his lips, and he smacks a hand over his face and drags it down the skin.

                “That’s really impressive Steve,” The man with the purple Band-Aid on his nose speaks up mockingly. Bucky snorts his agreement, and Steve fixes him with an apologetic glance. “Let me help you out.”

                The man walks over to where Steve and Bucky are sitting and throws on a suave relaxed grin. He juts his chin towards Bucky and smirks, “Hey, the name’s Clint Barton. I’m sure Steve was meaning to ask for your name, but he just felt like he’s already known you for so long it kind of became irrelevant.”

                Wanda groans from her stool, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Poor Steve he looks absolutely mortified, his skin redder than the ripest tomato in the garden.

                “Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says, and grimaces a little when Clint sticks out a clay covered hand to shake. Clint wiggles his fingers at him teasingly and Bucky laughs and takes his hand just to wipe that smug look off of his face.

                “Bucky Barnes, when Steve looks at you it’s like no one else in the room matters,” Clint flirts, his voice overly produced trying to sound sexy.

                “Oh my God. Clint shut the fuck up,” Steve wheezes.

                “No, please keep going. I’m feeling awfully flattered. Maybe, even a little hot under the collar,” Bucky teases.

                “I thought we were supposed to be painting,” Steve reminds, face flushed with embarrassment.

                Clint slumps away cackling, and Steve sends a pointed glare at his back that Clint seems to notice without even looking as his middle finger flies up. Bucky feels slightly out of place in this group of seemingly tight nit friends. Ones that can freely tease each other, and pick up one emotional cues and exploit them in a playful matter. Bucky was an outsider. Not fully initiated into this group.

                “Well, you’re the artist.” Bucky gestures towards the canvas, with a raised eyebrow.

                “Uh, do you have any idea as to what you want to paint?” Steve asks.

                “Finger painting?” Bucky blurts, he isn’t even sure if he’s being facetious or if he’s serious. He’s never finger painted before, not being allowed to as a child, and he feels like he’s missed out on an important childhood memory.

                Steve gives him a strange look, one that he cannot decode. It’s a cross between confusion and something that may be described as tender amusement.

                “Sorry, that was silly. I’ve just never done it before,” Bucky apologizes softly. He chews on his bottom lip nervously feeling quite foolish.

                “No, no it’s okay. Let’s do it,” Steve smiled big and excited. He claps his hands together like a mad scientist making Bucky laugh his nervousness out albeit shakily in an attempt to fool himself into a calm.

                Steve sets out small pots of paint in various colors, bright and bold. Yellows that are effervescent and happy; liquid sunlight in an aluminum pot. Light blues that capture the sparkle of water, of afternoon sky, and darker blues reminiscent of midnight specks of white like dazzling stars. Reds hot with fire and passion like it’ll burn your skin if you dare to dip your fingers in it. Greens, lush like fields of grass.

                “So, just dip my fingers in?” Bucky asks, fingers hovering hesitantly over the paint. He can feel the coolness of it already on his skin in anticipation.

                “Yeah,” Steve’s voice is a whisper, like he had to physically force it out of his throat. The deep rumble of his words makes Bucky’s body vibrate.

                Bucky gently skims the pads of his fingers over the smooth surface of the paint, before sinking his fingers in to the knuckle. He pulls his finger out, the paint running down his hand, and presses his finger onto the canvas. He moves the paint across the canvas creating jagged messy lines without any solid idea as to what he’s creating.

                “It’s abstract,” Bucky confirms with a nod in Steve’s direction. Steve leans over his shoulder to get a better view of his kindergarten-esque painting.

                “I can feel the emotion. The sorrow. It just makes me want to cry,” Steve tells him, voice overly emotional.

                “You’re such an asshole,” Bucky gripes, without any real malice in his voice. Steve gasps as if offended, and Bucky takes that moment to paint a stripe across Steve’s cheek. “My greatest creation, yet.”

                Steve smiles, with a hint of a blush at the collar of his shirt, and opens his mouth as if it speak when there’s a crash and a voice calling, “Steve!”

                “Really Clint? Again?” Steve calls towards the sound of the crash, before bringing his attention back to Bucky. “It was really nice meeting you, Bucky Barnes. I hope to see you back here again.”

                “Yeah, maybe,” Bucky allows himself to say, voice trailing off as he considers if he should even return next Wednesday.

                He thought he would feel foolish, finger painting like a toddler, but he didn’t. It was fun. Refreshing in a way. To just get messy, and allow himself to freely do something without reserve. No other thought than paint on canvas. He didn’t have to worry about the swooping feeling in his stomach, caused by Steve’s flirtatiously shy smile, and the guilt that came along with it. The paints don’t judge, they’re impartial, they’re trusting. A much needed distraction, a moment of peace.

                “Hey!” Broke this moment of peace, and Bucky looked up to see Clint pointing at him with a clay covered finger. “You know Natasha.”

                Bucky blinked at him, before nodding his assent.

                “That’s what I thought. I would eat my left shoe before believing there are two twenty-somethings named Bucky,” Clint laughs. Bucky just chuckles along so as not to be rude, feeling a little shy in the presence of such a boisterous person. “She’s great, huh? I love her.”

                A pleasant warmth spread over Bucky, just thinking about Natasha. She was an amazingly strong woman, his best friend. He doesn’t know where he would be without her. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s great. Really great.”

                “We do a game night with a few of our friends on Friday night, you should come,” Clint tells him. “Scattergories is a go to. Trivial Pursuit. We used to play Pictionary, but Steve is a piece of shit, and is way too good at drawing to make it fun.”

                “Steve goes?” Bucky asks, without thinking. He blushes a little when he realizes he sounds like a smitten teenager.

                Clint laughs and claps him on the shoulder, “Yup!”

                “I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to Nat about it,” Bucky answers.

                “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll see you there.” Clint winks, and slinks away tripping on a chair behind him and falling on his butt. Wanda snorted, with a roll of her eyes, and Bucky tried, but failed to hold in his own laughter.

                “So, I will be seeing you at game night?” Wanda asks.

                “You go to game night, too?” Bucky asks, eyes wide.

                “Of course. I am very good at Scattergories. If we play teams you can be on mine,” Wanda informs.

                “Uhm, thank you.”

☀☀☀

                Bucky slumps into his apartment, almost too tired to fiddle with his dinky door. He seriously contemplated sleeping on the floor in the hallway instead, however the comfort of his own bed took precedent over his exhaustion. He strips off his clothes, down to his boxers, as he makes his way to his room. He burrows under his covers, and closes his eyes prepared for sleep to take over immediately.

                He’s disappointed when despite his exhaustion his body rejects sleep. He tosses and turns, wallowing in his blankets tirelessly. He thinks about painting, and he thinks about Steve. Steve. His broad shoulders and his narrow waist. His stylishly mussed hair, bright blue eyes full of sorrowful passion, and a shy smile that carried happiness with it. Steve was handsome and lovely.

                That swooping feeling returned to Bucky’s stomach, as he felt blood rushing to his dick. He closed his eyes, and prayed for forgiveness. It was so immensely hard to remember that this is the reason he ran away.

                He was 13 when he was told he had Satan living inside of him. His mom had gone to Alexander Pierce, her new husband, her captor, tears in her eyes and told him she had caught a young James with lust in his eyes. Lust, is already bad, but lust for another man is even worse. His mother had taken him and his siblings out to the stores to buy new shoes. When outside the house the children are taught to keep their eyes downcast at their feet so as not to gaze upon the worldly sin that has its grasps upon the world outside their religion. They are told to put their fingers in their ears if music with foul language, or a beat created to make one sin comes on.

                Bucky had made a mistake. While, out an add with a shirtless man had caught his eye. At the time he did not realize why he was so enamored with the advert, and the man who was in it. He did not know why he just couldn’t pull his gaze away, or what that feeling inside his stomach was. However, his mother knew, and at 13 years old Bucky had broken his mother’s heart.

                She was so scared for him. Her body physically shook. She turned him around, and slapped him right on the face. “James Buchanan! You do no such thing. You do no such thing,” She had cried over and over again holding him tightly against her chest, shielding him.

                He tries not to remember what happened next. The way Pierce had grabbed his arm and dragged him to the basement. His mother’s crying, and his eldest sister Rebecca screaming, “Daddy! No!”

 He had gone perfectly limp in his violent hands. Too frightened to do anything but be perfectly submissive to the older man. In the basement was a large walk in freezer, used to store the meat they bought from a farm. Pierce opened the door to the freezer, making an ear piercing screech as metal rubbed against metal.

                Bucky felt his breathe quicken, hyperventilating. He was shoved so roughly into the freezer he had fallen onto his chin, biting straight though his lip. Blood was running down his face, but Pierce didn’t even care.

                “You’ll be staying in here,” Pierce had told him, his voice so menacing it struck fear straight down Bucky’s spine. “Romans 1: 18 – 32 you remember it?”

                Bucky nods his head frightfully.

                “Repeat it. Over and over again. You say you know it, but you chose not to live it you need to be reminded. If I come down here and you are not saying it you will be staying in here longer. You understand, James?”

                “Ye-Yes, sir,” Bucky cries. And he did. He repeated those verses over and over and over again, until he could barely breathe through his sobs, and the shivers that wracked through his body constantly.

                Bucky vaults out of his bed, and rushes to the bathroom unloading everything in his stomach into the toilet bowl. He rests his forehead against the cool porcelain and makes a silent vow to himself. One he has had to make many times. Alexander Pierce will not win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Bucky remembers being punished by being slapped by his mother, and drug forcefully into the basement and being locked in a freezer by Pierce
> 
> Fun fact: Memorizing MASSIVE passages of scripture is an incredibly common thing among children in the Gothard cult


	3. Responsibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short. I struggled writing it a bit. Nevertheless I hope you enjoy.  
> There are a few mentions of child abuse but nothing too egregious, or explicit.

_Responsibility_

_God holds us accountable for every word, thought, action, attitude, and motive. When we offend others, asking for forgiveness and making proper restitution are essential steps to maintaining a clear conscience._

                After a long day of lessons with kids who on a Friday afternoon would rather be anywhere else, but sat at a kitchen table repeating Russian flashcards over and over again Bucky flopped down on his couch, a Starbucks cup in hand. A pumpkin spice latte on a chilly autumn day was one of his guilty pleasures. He flicked through his phone, reading his emails, with half lidded heavy eyes.

                He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, mind too occupied with lustful thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes he had images of Steve flash through his mind. How his muscles stretched and moved under the tightness of his shirt. His shy, but exuberant grin. The way he leaned in, and invaded Bucky’s space in a way that was only comforting to him. These thoughts, were pleasant in more than just a lustful way, in more than just the flush of heat that ran through his body down to his dick, but in an emotional way. It was almost pathetic how smitten Bucky was with the other man, after only a short introduction.

                Bucky was pulled from his thoughts, when there was a sudden ruckus coming from his front door.

                “We’re going out!” Natasha announces as she slams the door open.

                “Please don’t break my door,” Bucky groans tiredly. “Where are we going?”

                “It’s game night,” Natasha reminds him. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

                “Game night!” Came another voice, breaking through Bucky’s apartment.

                “Clint?” Bucky asks, sitting up from the couch to see the other man walking into his apartment.

                “Your apartment is shit man,” Clint tells him.

                “Thanks?”

                “Get your ass up, Barnes,” Natasha commands, kicking the back of the couch.

                Bucky groans, but the prospect of seeing Steve again sends a rush of adrenaline throughout his body, the tiredness that he was previously feeling seeming to go away with it, being replaced by nervous energy. He was filled with anxiety about seeing Steve, both in a schoolyard crush sort of way, and a scared guilt. He swallowed his fears down, repressing them into the far distant parts of his mind. He could do this. Game night, it’s simple.

                “Is there gonna be alcohol?” He asks.

                “Wouldn’t be game night without it,” Natasha replies with a smirk.

                “I’m already drunk,” Clint informs.

                Okay, yeah. He could do this. Game night.

☀☀☀

                Bucky was smooshed between Wanda and this guy named Sam. He hadn’t met Sam until tonight, and he would have preferred not to be rubbing up against the man, but according to every single person in the room Sam was the best thing on God’s green earth. Bucky really couldn’t dispute that. Sam had smiled so widely at him upon meeting him, genuine and kind. He even hugged him with one arm patting him on the back, welcoming him to the group.

They were playing Trivial Pursuit, in pairs. Wanda and Bucky were paired together due to Wanda’s persistence that they must be a team together. Clint had tried to argue that, wanting to claim Bucky for himself. Bucky had just sat there flustered looking at his hands insisting, “I’m not that smart guys. I was homeschooled.”

                Now Bucky and Wanda were teamed up against Clint and Natasha and Steve and Sam. They currently had five pieces and were in the lead, Sam and Steve not the far behind with three, and Clint and Natasha having none; not for lack of trying on Natasha’s part, but more so Clint changing the answer from the correct one at the last minute one time too many. He wanted to get drunk quite obviously, and they had to take a shot each time they got an answer wrong; Natasha was on the brink of murder at this point.

                “One piece left,” Wanda reminds, scooping up the dice to roll. Their figure landed on the color they needed to win, brown, arts and literature.

                Steve picked up the card, and read their question, “What is the name commonly given to the first five books of the Old Testament?”

                “Who the hell’s supposed to know that?” Clint gawks. “Take a fuckin’ sip babes.”

                “Pentateuch,” Bucky answers, without hesitation.

                “Uhm, yeah! Correct!” Steve informs, after analyzing the card for the answer. Bucky just closes his eyes and downs a shot, or two, or all the ones that were sitting on the coffee table.

                “I’ll be right back,” Bucky tells them, almost robotically heaving himself up from the couch, and moving himself away from the group of stunned eyes. He didn’t like the way they looked at him, with astonishment and awe. It was an easy question. Everyone should know that question, at least if they want God to know they’re good. He’s had himself beat black and blue to remember the answers to hundreds of questions just like that one. There was no pride in knowing that answer.

                Bucky was drunk, not severely, but enough to wobble side to side as he walks. He hobbled his way through the hallway, in search of the bathroom. He thinks this is where the bathroom is, at least. He really should have asked, Sam. He bumps into the wall, knocking a framed picture onto the floor.

                “Oh, no,” He whines. His voice must have been louder than he wanted, because Steve comes peaking his head into the hallway.

                “Are you okay?” Steve’s face is red with a drunken flush, and his eyebrows are furrowed in such a drastic look of concern.

                “I, uh, I knocked this picture down.” Bucky points to the photo lamely.

                “Yeah,” Steve nods sympathetically.

                “I’m really drunk,” Bucky blurts, which sends Steve into loud guffaws that cause his body to heat up in embarrassment, relishing in the pleasure that he granted Steve. Perhaps, he was drunker than he previously presumed.

                “Me too,” Steve sighs after his bought of laughter.

                They stand in the hallway in silence after that, both staring at the other. Steve’s breathing is loud, breathless almost, and he licks at his lips as he catches Bucky’s gaze. It sends a shiver of satisfaction down his spine, pants tightening, and acid rising in his throat.

                “I need to go to the bathroom,” Bucky says, to break the silence.

                Steve, seemingly feeling the same tension, asks at the same time, “Would you go on a date with me?”

                Bucky gapes at Steve, mouth open, and eyes wide. Steve flushes and dips his head downwards. He points to the door on Bucky’s left hand side, “The bathroom is right there.”

                “Oh, thank you,” Bucky tells him, opening the door. He goes to close the door behind him, but stops and peaks his head out in a moment of bravery, “I’ll go on a date with you. Not now, I have to pee, but another day.”

                Steve’s smile is wide and blinding, “Okay! Another day.”

                With the door locked and closed, Bucky rests his back against the wood and tries to steady his anxious breathing. His head was spinning, as though he had been holding his breath, and maybe he had been. Everything was a blur, as though he watched the entire scene from outside his body. Despite this ever present anxiety, and deep pit of guilt in his gut his body still hummed with pleasant satisfaction. The tips of his toes, and fingers practically vibrating with joy. He would have squealed like a teenage girl in a rom-com if he was alone. This was good. This was going to be good. That was his new mantra.

☀☀☀

                “Let’s go, Barnes,” Natasha prods at Bucky’s side gently. Even after throwing back multiple shots of vodka Natasha remained spectacularly level. Bucky on the other hand was not fairing so well, having hit the liquor even harder once he returned from the bathroom. His drunken antics caused Steve to laugh hard, face red, bent over with a hand on his stomach, and eyes wet, and Bucky loved it. He would have done anything in that moment to make Steve laugh.

                The residual happiness that radiated from Steve was enough for Bucky for multiple lifetimes. It encapsulated him in warmth, like a summer’s day, or perhaps that was all the alcohol. His heart didn’t seem to think that was so, however, and he knew that this was a moment he would never forget. A moment he could close his eyes and see in slow motion, and just allow himself to bask in a night that was purely pleasant.

                Bucky leaned against Natasha as they wandered down the sidewalk, streetlights flickering, and cars rushing by. Natasha was babbling on about a client she had taken for both physical training and nutrition training, who had already broken his regiment after a week of training. She remarked snidely at how weak men could be, making Bucky laugh against her side.

                “Steve asked me out,” Bucky tells her, after her rant had calmed down.

                “Really?” She hums, as though she already knew. Knowing her observation skills, it shouldn’t surprise Bucky that she had an inclination that at least some kind of chemistry was developing between them.

                “I said yes,” Bucky continues. “Well, actually I said I had to pee, but I also said yes.”

                “I can really understand what he sees in you now,” She chuckles sarcastically.  

                “I haven’t given him the chance to see how messed up I am, yet,” Bucky laughs bitterly. “He’ll see eventually. Then we can see what he thinks.”

                Bucky pushes his door open, and the scent of his stale musty apartment hits him right in the face. He groans and flops face first onto the couch.

                “Bucky,” Natasha sighs sadly.

                “Really?” Bucky scoffs. “Pity?”

                Bucky can’t see her, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes at him. He can practically feel her irritation against his skin. He sighs, “I know. I’m being hypocritical and wallowing in my own self-pity, but I’m drunk.”

                “You’re a child,” Natasha tells him softly, smile lingering on her lips. “Try not to choke in your own vomit, Yasha.”

                “Love you, too,” Bucky grumbles against a shabby throw pillow.

☀☀☀

                Bucky was dipping his fingers into the condensation that slid down the water glass on the coaster in front of him, as he sat across from Dr. Potts. He was shaking his leg nervously, as the two sat in silence. She had asked him what he wanted to talk about, if he wanted to talk about his past or how his week went. He could talk about anything, anything he wanted. Today, though, he was just so tired. The very thought of talking made him want to slump over in his seat, and just sleep. Except he hasn’t been able to sleep lately, no matter how hard he’s tried.

                “Bucky?” He hears Dr. Potts’ voice from far away. “We don’t have to talk, you know. I can’t make you do anything that you don’t want to do. You can always tell me if something I am doing is making you uncomfortable. However, I’m afraid if we don’t communicate with each other we can’t move forward with your recovery.”

                “I’m sorry.” Bucky is surprised by how raspy his voice comes out. His throat dry, and mouth sticky. He takes a long drink of water, and lets out a sigh in an attempt to relieve at least some of the tension in his body.

                “I’m tired,” He finally says.

                Dr. Potts hums, and leans back in her chair. “How have you been sleeping?”

                “Not so good, lately.”

                “Do you know why?” She asks. He knows why. Of course. However, the hard part comes with having to say it out loud, and admit to it. He was scared to admit it, which is such a silly thing, because it must be incredibly obvious to anyone who knows him.

                Bucky sighs, and scrubs a hand across his face, “I guess I gotta do the whole spiel now, don’t I?”

                “If you want,” Dr. Potts smiles, gently.

                “So, I went to the art thing here. You know that you told me about,” Bucky tells her, which she commends him on with a wide smile. “Yeah, and I uh met Steve. He’s nice. He’s friend with Natasha ironically enough. We hung out together with uh, Natasha, and Wanda and Clint from art class, and Steve’s friend Sam. It was okay, we played Trivial Pursuit. Uhm. Steve. He uh. He asked. Huh. Yeah. So, he asked me out.”

                Dr. Potts actually raised her eyebrows in surprise at that confession, and then smiled like she knew some kind of amusing secret. This was slightly unsettling to Bucky, and caused a slight panic to creep up his skin.

                “What? Why are you smiling like that?” He questions.

                “Excuse me. That was a bit unprofessional,” She laughs lightly. “I’m just pleasantly surprised. Steve isn’t one to pursue romantic relationships. How did him asking you out make you feel?”

                Bucky blushed hotly, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Really happy. He’s so nice. I hardly know him, but I can tell he’s so nice. Being around him, it just makes me happy.”

                “So, you said yes I presume? To the date?”

                “Yeah, yeah I did.”

                “How do you feel? About going on a date with Steve?” She asks.

                Bucky sighs, “I’m so scared.”

                He felt small now, like he was a little boy again shaking in his mother’s arms as she cleans up his bloody back after a hard whipping. Whispering to him that he needs to be better, that he needs to try harder to be better. He tried so hard. He did. Yet, somehow he keeps failing, and here he is failing yet again.

                “I’m not supposed to be like this,” Bucky whispers.

                “Like what?” Dr. Potts asks, her voice is soothing and gentle. She doesn’t seem to be prodding at him to answer. It’s almost as though she is just suggesting that he answers. He doesn’t have to answer her, he could just be quiet. He could continue to keep everything inside of himself, like he’s been doing. Things wouldn’t get better than they are now, but it isn’t that bad really.

                “I’m bad,” His voice is a dark rumble. “I’ve exchanged the glory of God for an immoral one. For sin. Degradation. This is my punishment. I’m being punished, and instead of turning to God, instead of being good, I’ve given in to my worldly sin. I even sin in my sleep I am so overcome by Satan. I have dreams of intercourse with another man. I can’t even sleep without being punished. I do not deserve peace. I’m bad. I’m so bad.”

                “Bucky,” Dr. Potts begins softly. “You aren’t bad because of your sexuality. Being gay does not inherently make you bad.”

                Bucky shakes his head furiously, but Dr. Potts continues. “Regardless of whether you view homosexuality as a sin or not, it doesn’t make you any less worthy of peace. It is impossible to live without sin, no matter how hard one may try. I am quite familiar with the Christian doctrine, and though opinion may vary I personally believe that every man deserves peace through God, or not. Loving one’s neighbor is more important than trying to absolve the neighbor of sin.”

                It doesn’t make sense. Loving them is trying to rid them of sin so they too can join you in the kingdom of God. That is how it works, that is what he has been taught through his entire life that love is.

                “Think of Natasha,” Dr. Potts says.

                “What?”

                “Do you think Natasha deserves peace?” She asks.

                The answer was alarmingly obvious. “Of course.”

                “Is Natasha a sinner?”

                “Not like me,” Bucky mutters.

                “Aren’t all sins the same in the eyes of the Lord?” Dr. Potts questions.

                Bucky nods slowly taking in her words. “I. I guess. I mean the Bible never explicitly says that, but I guess technically one could say that.”

                “I have an idea,” Dr. Potts informs brightly. “I want you to allow yourself to do something that you were taught to view as a sin. Just one thing. Something small. Of course keep it within the law, though I know that will not be a problem, just a friendly reminder. Take close consideration to how you feel during, and after.”

                Bucky nods hesitantly, a nervous feeling bubbling in his stomach, “Okay.”

                “Good!” Dr. Potts exclaims. “I want you to be happy, Bucky. The stress that you contain within yourself is holding you back, but we can do this. I know you can.”

                Bucky huffed an anxious laugh, and flopped back against his chair. It was reassuring to a certain extent to know that he at least has someone on his side, though the cynical side of him is telling him that Dr. Potts only cares, because he is paying her to. He pushes that part of him down, and forces himself to smile. He wants to do this, he really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, I feel a bit silly saying this but if you liked it please comment. It really boosts my confidence, and just makes me happy tbh. Lol thanks for reading (:  
> I already have most of the next chapter written it's actually the first thing I wrote for this story, because it's Steve and Bucky's first date!!


	4. Suffering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!! The date!  
> I hope you enjoy this, I loved writing it.

_Suffering_

_The hurts of offenders can reveal our “blind spots.” God grants us grace for personal cleansing, growth, and achievement as we learn to respond with full forgiveness to those who offend us._

The weekend was a welcomed hug to the last two weeks. Bucky’s gone through a lot of growth in such a short span of time, and his skin has been feeling extremely tight due to it. He remembers he had growing pains as a boy. Of course he didn’t know what they were at the time. He just remembers lying in bed feeling extreme pain, wondering if this was God punishing him for all of his misdoings. He tried to sit still in church and listen to the sermon, he tried not to get angry at his sister when she pestered him endlessly, and he tried to always do his chores, but sometimes he’d mess up. As a boy he’d always assumed that those growing pains were just a result of his infractions, as he became older he learned that might not be so.

It was extremely frightening to discover that his entire world view was built upon illusions, and lies. That maybe Alexander Pierce was wrong; that he wasn’t the mouth piece of the Lord. That was the first time he questioned his faith, his life, and it terrified him. He swallowed down his fear, kept his head down, and continued to live underneath Alexander Pierce’s reign.

Bucky was settled on the couch, his laptop balancing on his lap, when his phone buzzed to life with a text message from a number he hadn’t had saved in his contacts.

_Hii! Dinner tonight? There’s a place with soup that is so good_

_This is Steve btw_

Bucky grinned at his phone, as he wracked his brain trying to decide how he should respond.

_Hi Steve soup sounds nice. Time and place?_

Steve sent him the address and a time, and Bucky ran to his bedroom to completely destroy his closet in hopes of finding the perfect outfit. After several costume changes Bucky settled on a nice pair of black jeans that fit snugly around his thighs, and a soft dark blue sweater. It was simple, but nice. He practiced his smile in the mirror, and ran nervous fingers through his slightly tousled hair.

At seven o’clock sharp, Bucky was kicking his feet at the concrete outside a quaint looking French restaurant, eyes darting around nervously. Steve sauntered up, looking a little uneasy himself, but smiling all the same. It cut through the autumn air and warmed Bucky up.

“Hi,” Steve breathed out, flopping his arms to his side as though he was unsure of whether or not it would be appropriate to give Bucky a hug.

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle at that, and pushed himself against Steve lightly to give him a quick, and friendly hug. “It’s nice to see you, Steve.”

“Same, yeah. This restaurant is great. I know it looks a little pretentious, but trust me the food is good,” Steve ensures.

“Okay, okay. Good.”

They were sat at a table in the dim lit restaurant. Quiet piano music played throughout the room, warm and calming. Bucky fiddled with the tablecloth nervously, watching Steve with a smitten grin, as the other man stirred a spoon around a soup bowl. Bucky thought Steve was ridiculously adorable. He got excited enough for soup to nearly knock his water glass over, and hit a waitress on the shoulder with a flying hand. There was however, one question that nagged at Bucky’s mind.

"Are you religious?" Bucky asks.

Steve looks up from his soup bowl, and lets out one barking laugh, a singular 'Ha!'

"I'm Irish-Catholic, or I was raised Catholic. I'm not so religious now-a-days. I'll go to mass or confession if the guilt gets real strong, though."

"Why aren't you religious, anymore?" Bucky questions nervously, teeth skimming over his bottom lip. "If you don't mind me asking. I assume this isn't very common first date conversation."

"While not common I'm guessing it's something that means a lot to you?" Steve asks softly, tilting his head ever so slightly in Bucky's direction.

Bucky felt a twinge of embarrassment at this, he wasn't sure why, and felt his cheeks begin to pink. He nodded shyly, and looked up at Steve through his eyelashes, who was sweetly smiling.

Bucky was sure angels had to look like Steve Rogers. It's practically impossible not to fear someone who looks that pretty.

"Well, I guess I'm not so religious anymore because of my art," Steve tells him.

Bucky raises his eyebrows in interest. "Your art?"

"Yeah," Steve laughs, stirring absentmindedly at the soup. "I guess, I don't know really. I came back from Afghanistan, and I was so fucking lost. All the shit I saw really messed me up. My Ma always told me to find direction in God, so I went to Sunday mass for a while. I don't know, some of the stuff I would hear just pissed me off."

Steve cuts himself off with a scoff.

"They're all so hypocritical saying shit about how only God has the right to judge, and then going and judging people for who they are. That's beside the point though," Steve chuckles. "The whole God, church thing just was not working for me. But when I started painting. Fuck. It was like a whole new world was opened up to me."

And Bucky feels himself delve deeper in his infatuation for this man. How he talked so passionately about everything. About his opinions. His art. About freaking soup. It was like everything held weight, and had meaning. There was no such thing as insignificance in Steve Rogers' world.

"I feel bad, though. Sometimes," Steve adds his voice softer, more careful. "My Ma she loved going to church. I just remember looking up at her as a kid and seeing her smiling as she sang the hymns, and just feeling this immense feeling of happiness, because she was happy. I just haven't been able to feel that kind of elation, that kind of joy, again. I want to feel that again."

Bucky feels a whoosh of air just punched out of him by the pure force of how much he feels that. The immensity with which he can relate to the earnest love Steve Rogers has for his mother, for her joy, and wanting to be able to feel a happiness such as that. Yet, he can't help the waves of uneasiness that roll through his stomach as the bitter tang of envy invades his mouth. That Steve never had to see the slow deterioration of his mother as she was emotionally and physically manipulated by a man who claimed to be a mouth piece of the Lord. The Lord that once gave her such great joy was now nothing but a heavy burden on her soul. Bucky swallows this sinful jealousy down. Reminds himself that he's happy that Steve never had to see that. He wishes it upon no one. Life isn't fair, especially to him.

"And you think the church can give you that?" Bucky asks.

"Well, it worked for her, so," Steve trails off sadly.

"Yeah," Bucky chokes out. "Yeah, I understand that feeling."

"But if there's one thing she taught me it's that I can't be anyone else but me," Steve says, a large smile adorning his face. "She drilled that into me real good. It was most important to her. That I knew who I was, who I am, is good."

"That's real nice," Bucky says a little dreamily.

Steve laughs at that, a deep bellow of a thing. It's like music to Bucky's ears.

"You sound a little dazed at that."

Bucky laughs embarrassedly, "Yeah. Well, I was taught how to smile."

Bucky demonstrates, throwing on a plastic grin three white teeth showing. His eyes void of emotion.

"That is frightening," Steve chuckles with another one of his laughs making Bucky's stomach flutter.

Bucky feels his face flush, "Yeah, well. Three teeth smile, and a handshake. That's how you had to great people. Unless you were a girl then no handshake, now that would just be inappropriate."

"Christ," Steve groans. "That's, that's awful. Who was teaching you this? I'd like to give them a lesson in feminism or two."

"Alexander Pierce," Bucky answers. "And he might need more than two."

"Wait, Alexander Pierce? Like that awful evangelical cult leader douche bag?" Steve questions, voice absolutely horrified.

"That'd be the one," Bucky attempts to joke, but his throat was too tight for it to sound anything close to convincing.

"Fuck, Bucky. Are you okay?" Steve's voice cautiously soft, but sharp and worried. He reaches across the table taking Bucky's hand in his, and Bucky could cry. If they weren't in the middle of a crowded restaurant, Bucky was sure he would break down any second now.

"Well, I'm here aren't I?" Bucky smiles wobbly, his voice small and shaky. Steve just squeezes his hand, and Bucky's vision blurs. He runs the top of his free hand across his eyes, but it does nothing to rid his eyes of the cloudy tears.

There's something that rings so true in his words. Something that hits him at his very core. Something that brings him back to Natasha moving around his apartment; the sunset sleepily dripping down the sky. It tells him that he's okay. That he's making it. That maybe, maybe he is going to be alright.

"Yeah, well it's pretty hard to feel bad when you're surrounded by all of this," Steve teases, gesturing to himself and making a ridiculously over the top smooch face.

"How modest of you," Bucky tries to joke back dryly, but ends up breaking and laughing in the middle of his sentence. A few lone tears falling down his cheeks despite himself.

"What kind of date am I, huh?" Steve asks softly wiping away the tears with his thumb. "Making you cry on the first date."

"It's okay," Bucky tells him his voice all but a whisper.

"I just meant I usually wait until the second date to make my date cry," Steve smirks. "I'm a real considerate guy like that."

Bucky laughs a bit too loudly at that earning him a glare from the middle aged woman across the room for them, which just makes him laugh more. Carefree and happy. God himself could come down at this moment, at this table, and tell him he was going to hell to burn in eternal damnation, and Bucky would be completely okay with it.

"You're the worst. The absolute worst," Bucky groans fondness evident in every syllable. "I really like you."

"You're sending me mixed signals here, Buck," Steve chuckles.

"Can you pretend I didn't say that last part out loud?" Bucky blushes furiously.

A smile flickers on Steve's lips, mischief dances across his eyes. He pulls his hands on to either side of the shiny white bowl, fingers twitching ever so slightly.

"You really like soup?" Steve asks, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down into the bowl. He picks his spoon up dipping it into the bowl. "Well, if you really like soup, as you say, you should definitely try this soup. As it is in fact, the best soup."

Steve moves the spoon to Bucky's lips, keeping a hand under it to keep from making a mess over the table. Bucky looks Steve in the eyes, before glancing shyly at the spoon. He allows Steve to push the spoon past his lips, and allows the subtle flavor of the soup to wash over his tongue.

His eyes flutter closed, and he tilts his head back letting out a delighted moan, "Wow."

"Hey, now don't get too excited. This soup can do very little for you in bed. Trust me if it could I would have given up on people a long time ago," Steve says.

"Have I mentioned you're the worst?" Bucky asks through a fit of full on belly laughter.

"You may have mentioned that earlier," Steve smiles.

"But if it means anything," Steve adds. "I really like soup too."

"The problem with soup," Bucky starts, not sure if he's aiming for some kind of metaphor, literate, and studied or an actual complaint on the merits of eating soup for a meal. "Is that you get hungry not too long after eating it. It's not very filling, you know?"

Steve, decisive and quick tells him, "That's why you gotta eat bread with it. Panera, they know what they're doing. You ever been there, Panera?"

Bucky feels the ice around his heart begin to thaw, or perhaps melt even faster. It's hard to be cold when Steve Rogers is in front of him, warm and comforting.

"Are you already propositioning me for a second date? That's quite presumptuous of you, isn't it?" Bucky teases, though his cheeks flare red.

"I may be," Steve smiles, lopsided and a bit insecure. "If you're okay with another soup oriented date, that is."

"I think I will be," Bucky grins. "As long as there's bread."

"There will be bread. Loaves and loaves of bread I swear to you. Tons of it. As much bread as you can stomach. I'll even get you a sandwich if you want," Steve promises.

"Oh wow," Bucky deadpans. "An entire sandwich. How you do spoil me so."

"Jerk," Steve mutters through a smile.

"Punk," Bucky quips back his own smile just as bright.

Steve insists on walking Bucky back to his apartment, despite Bucky's many attempts to reassure Steve that he'd be fine on his own. Silently, he's grateful that he has Steve walking a hare behind him, large hand on the small of his back. Holding him up, keeping him steady. Protection. A part of him feels sick to his stomach. Dinner churning dangerously threatening to come back up his throat, and splatter across the concrete. He doesn't want to need this protection, to have this feeling of absolute vulnerability. It's terrifying. There are walls that he's built, guards he has put up that have held steady for so long. To have those knocked down, completely abolished by one man, by a hand on the small of his back, by a small act of kindness, is petrifying.

"Can I kiss you?" Steve asks.

They're stood outside of Bucky's apartment. Steve's hand in his. A shy smile playing on Steve's lips.

"You know goodnight?" Steve clarifies. He's nervous, more so than Bucky has ever seen in the short time he's known him. "I mean if that's something you do. You know, not everyone kisses on the first date. So, feel free to say no. It's completely up to you."

He thinks back to what Dr. Potts told him. To try something that he viewed as a sin. Something small. This was just a kiss, a kiss was small, sometimes even just friendly. There was nothing morally objectionable about this, the world has been changing. Still his body itched nervously with shame. He felt so wrong, and so dirty, but there was something inside of him that keeps pulling his heart towards Steve.

"Yes," Bucky manages his voice a soft whisper, he's scared to speak any louder. Scared that he wants this. That he wants Steve's lips against his, Steve's hands on his body. All those dirty thoughts, sinful and selfish.

"I can kiss you?" Steve clarifies.

Bucky breathes in, a shaky breath that sends shivers through his whole body. His hands shake lightly by his side; nerves frayed. He nods, and Steve leans in. One hand remains on Bucky's back, the other reaches up to cup his face; warmth radiating from him to Bucky. More shivers that seem impossible to contain wrack up his spine.

Their lips brush together lightly, timidly. A ghost of a touch that only tickles. Both afraid, too nervous to push it any deeper.

Steve pulls away first, Bucky all but frozen in place. He rests his forehead against Bucky's and chuckles softly, in disbelief.

"I'm a real lucky guy, huh?" Steve laughs. Bucky looks up at him through his eyelashes, eyes meeting solidifying warmth. "Got to kiss a handsome fellow like you. A man can only get so lucky."

Bucky feels his entire face turn red all the way to the tips of his ears. He grins teasingly, "A kiss? That wasn't much of a kiss was it?"

"I was tryin' to be sweet, you asshole," Steve grumps, voice a surprisingly high pitched whine.

Bucky finds himself giggle. Giggle. An astonished hand flies to his mouth nearly clocking Steve under the chin. Steve's eyes get wide in fond bewilderment, which only contributes to even more embarrassingly peppy giggles.

"God, you're cute," Steve sighs, shushed and adorned with endearment like he's singing a lullaby.

Bucky does slap Steve this time. A light smack across his left shoulder. "I am not cute. I'm rugged. Manly."

"And cute as fuck," Steve adds dopey smiled. "Besides, I wouldn't consider just being unkempt to be rugged."

Bucky gapes at him, and Steve just laughs. His blue eyes shining bright even in the dim light of the hallway, and Bucky's heart is racing as though he's sitting at the top of a rollercoaster track just waiting for the drop.

Bucky swallows emotions stuck in his throat. "So? Are you gonna kiss me for real, or just continue to insult my hygiene?"

"Guess we can do both," Steve shrugs, his lips twitching with mischief. "Gotta find out if you got all your teeth somehow."

Before Bucky can snap back at Steve with any witty retorts Steve is leaning into him, grabbing his face with strong hands, and kissing him hard. Hard enough it makes his lips tingle. He feels that death defying drop, heart pounding against his chest with such a force he's surprised it hasn't busted through his skin. His fingers dig into Steve's side trying to hold himself steady as his knees buckle slightly.

Steve's losing his balance, and all his grace as the kiss gets more desperate, more heated sloppy force begging for leverage. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot before giving in to all his temptation and pushing Bucky up against the door with accidental roughness.

Bucky hisses into his mouth hand moving to grab at his hair. Pale fingers curling around short, tightly trimmed blond locks. He gives a light tug when Steve nips at his bottom lip causing Steve to pull away and moan deep in his throat hips bucking slightly.

They're so close, breathing the same air. Shy eyes reluctant to look into each other, but they find themselves unable to look away. Chests heaving through the intensity of their breathing. Beads of sweat slide down Bucky's back tickling his skin. His body hot and flushed, cheeks pink, but he can't stop shivering as though he's treading through snow without a coat.

He feels Steve's arms wrap around him bringing him even closer. So close it almost feels impossible and Bucky's so sure he's never felt as close to anyone as he does now and he holds on tight scared to push away, but terrified by the mere proximity. A truly painful paradox.

Steve rubs a soothing hand up and down his back. Offering simple comfort.

"That was pretty good, huh?" Steve smirks cheekily. "Was that a real enough kiss for you?"

Still struggling for breath, shaky hands releasing a secure grip on Steve's t-shirt. His fingers stiff with the pure force of it. Stormy wet eyes blink up at him. Bucky thinks he nods, but he isn't even completely sure if he's registered the words Steve has spoken at all.

"You okay there Buck?" Steve asks, voice gone of any teasing and now flowing with worry.

"I just." Bucky turns away sharply; voice trailing off. He manages by the grace of God to procure his keys from his pocket.

Anxious clumsy fingers, drop the keys to the floor. A moment of defeat that seems all too crippling. Bucky rests his forehead against the door, heavy breathing turning into something much more sinister.

He digs his nails into his palm enough to center his thoughts, and turns back around. Hair falling in front of his face, a protective shield from his own foolishness.

"Can you, can you unlock my door?" Bucky asks, feeling incredibly vulnerable. "I'm sorry it's just my hand-"

"No, no don't apologize. It's okay," Steve assures him voice casual, and comforting. He bends down effortlessly drawing Bucky's eyes to the way his muscles strain against the too small shirt adorning his body. Which does absolutely nothing in alleviating his shaky nerves, in fact it shockingly manages to only increase them.

"Alright, all good," Steve tells him softly pushing his apartment door open. Of course his door, carved from the trees of hell, opens without resistance for Steve Rogers. Even his door knows that Steve Rogers is splendid, and amazing and doesn't deserve any extra stress put into his life.

"Home sweet home." He hears Steve's shy smile in his voice, low and forcibly steady.

Bucky looks towards Steve's hand. The way his index finger curls around the silver ring of his keychain; keys dangling smacking at the vein on the underside of his wrist. A mundane gesture done without much thought turned provocative by Bucky's lust riddled brain. He feels his Adam's apple bob unintentionally hinting at his attraction.

 "Thanks," Bucky whispers.

He wills his feet to shuffle through the doorway creating an invisible barrier between himself and Steve. It provides little comfort with Steve hovering like a ghost haunting his hallway.

"Steve," Bucky says.

"Can I see you again?" Steve blurts, at the same time.

"What?" Bucky exasperates. A knee jerk reaction, but he's struck with disbelief having thought he's gone and totally blew it.

"You best be careful," Steve tells him, and there's that smile. Mischievous. Sweetly wicked. A smile Bucky has already found himself growing so fond of. "Your eyes get any wider and they'll pop right out of their sockets."

"You wanna see me again?" Bucky asks, his voice so hushed afraid of the answer.

"Course I do, Buck," Steve tells him like it's so simple. Like he never would have thought differently, and there's something in his earnestness that makes Bucky believe him.

"Okay," Bucky feels himself smile, wide and uninhibited. "I remember someone owing me bread anyways."

"Loaves and loaves," Steve reminds.

There's a moment after smiles fade, and pleasant laughter dies out where they're left standing face to face. Residue of earlier tension still left hanging in the air.

"Can I kiss you again?" Steve questions his voice undeniably soft and tender. Unsure of the appropriateness of his verbal advances.

Something small. With his mouth having gone dry it seems impossible to answer, but somehow Bucky manages to squeak out a timid, "Yes."

Then Steve's leaning in, invisible barrier breached. The scent of his cologne stronger as he comes close. Bucky shuts his eyes tightly awaiting with anxious arousal for the kiss, but Steve pauses. Bucky's eyes flutter open just in time for Steve to press pink dry lips against the tip of his nose. Bucky's breath hitches stuck in his throat.

 A hand rubs down his arm. "Goodnight Buck."

 Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always comments are appreciated (:


	5. Ownership

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter for you guys, because I'll be leaving for Europe soon and then once I get back I'm having surgery so I'm not sure when I'll be able to update.
> 
> Massive massive trigger warning:  
> Discussions of past rape and child abuse

The loneliness of fall eventually gave way to the bitter cold of a New York winter. Though, perhaps this fall season, looking back, wasn’t so lonely. Not with Steve Rogers constantly evading his orbit. The man was clumsy in his approach, yet somehow this came across effortless in Bucky’s smitten eyes. When attending art class Steve seemed to give him a special attention that none of the other participants got. Of course that was not without the insistent heckling from Clint and Wanda. The two would constantly oh and awe each time Steve leaned over Bucky’s shoulder to speak gently to him, lips brushing his cheek as he did, or to wrap his large long fingers around his wrist to guide his hand. It became such a common occurrence throughout his attendance to the class, but still he managed to turn red in the face and feel a warm giddy bubbling in his stomach.

 Game night was even worse. It had gotten to the point that Steve and Bucky have been banned from teaming together, as they spent too much time making moon eyes at each other, rather than playing the games. Well, there’s that, and there’s Steve’s penchant for explaining the rules incorrectly to Bucky in order to cheat, and get the upper hand, have them banned from teaming up. Wanda was a good team mate, even if she was a little intense at times. Honestly, he was surrounded by a room full of crazy competitive people. Natasha literally pulled a knife (out of seemingly nowhere) last week to threaten Clint to work harder when they were losing in Risk.

 Sam was the only one who seemed to be able to keep a rational cool head during game night, but he was an instigator if Bucky had ever seen one. He was sneaky too, able to get around Natasha’s analytical glare, to move pieces on the board and then blame Clint or Steve, or as of lately Bucky himself. Bucky was learning that, at least when it came to him, Sam could be a bit of a dick. Sure, it was all done in light, and he reacted in jest, but his subconscious insecurely nagged at him about it. Steve had informed him not to worry too much, that that was basically how Sam said he liked you. It actually surprised Bucky that when he arrived at Sam’s house for the next game night, and Sam slammed the door right in his face he felt a warmth surge through his entire body. Sam liked him. Despite all of his shortcomings, and what he saw as negative attributes that nobody would want to be around, Sam liked him. So did Wanda, and of course Natasha.

Then there was Steve, who he was fairly sure didn’t just like him, but perhaps had feelings that ran even deeper. He was certainly verging on the sacred l-word himself when it came to Steve. He was finding these strong sentiments to be very disconcerting, that left a metallic taste in his mouth and an uneasy nausea spinning around his stomach. He’s only known Steve for about a month, and he never viewed himself as someone who would fall so quickly into a relationship with someone else. In the past he actively pushed others away to make sure that would never happen, because it was something that was just simply not allowed. With Steve, though, it was almost as though he became a different person. Someone who wasn’t afraid anymore. Someone who relished in the fact that life was messy, and difficult, but also fun and full of love. The world didn’t seem so scary with Steve by his side.

 Steve had come to Bucky’s apartment late in the night on Thanksgiving with a saran wrapped plate of leftovers, and a wobbly smile. The man had crumpled against Bucky’s chest, holding him tightly fingers digging into the skin of his back.

“I’m sorry to show up at such a weird time,” Steve had rasped. “I just. It’s just. I’m lonely.”

All of a sudden Bucky began to feel a bit choked up. There was such an earnestness in Steve’s eyes, as there always seemed to be. His eyes gave him away, they always did. He held every single human emotion inside of him. Everything he felt was present right within them, and Steve, he felt. He felt everything, and Bucky was just so enamored. He wanted to feel Steve, and all of his emotions running through his own body. A euphoric transcendence that he found himself desperately craving.

“Yeah,” Bucky finally choked out.

Steve smiled, small and wobbly, and Bucky’s body tightened with the need to just reach out and grab Steve’s hand in his own. He wanted to, badly. So badly. He just couldn’t get his body to corporate with his mind.

“It’s hard,” Steve says. “Thanksgiving. I just. Sometimes it’s hard to find things to be thankful for.”

“Yeah,” Bucky repeats again, feeling quite dumb.

“I went to Sam’s. His mom she’s been really good to me since… Well since everything,” Steve laughs sheepishly.

“Everything?” Bucky questions hesitantly, his lip caught between his upper teeth.

Steve had brought up his past casually, in short off handed comments. The fact he was a Captain in the Army, that he was deployed in Afghanistan, and that his mom had died, but other than that Bucky knew very little about Steve’s past. It’s noticeable, after first glance, that Steve is no longer the man he used to be. That he was changed. Hardened. Bucky didn’t want to push the issue, he wanted Steve to open up organically. He wanted Steve to want to tell him, but naturally he was curious, and by the subtle hints Steve was throwing his way, maybe Steve did need a little bit of a push.

“Afghanistan was rough. It was rough. I lost a lot of good men under my watch. Too many men. And I tried to tell myself that that’s just the spoils of war. Men die in war, and that’s just the way it is. But I. I can’t. The blood. The smell. Fuck the smell. I’ll never forget that,” Steve’s voice was rough, and speeding up with each word, as though he needed to get it all out before he lost his nerve. “Sometimes when I’m out something just reminds me of that smell, and suddenly I’m back there, their screams still ringing in my ears, their gasps before impact. I just feel like-like I killed them. I was in charge of them, to protect them, and I didn’t. And I feel like a goddamn murderer.”

Steve had grown frantic, his leg shaking nervously and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Bucky felt his Adam’s apple bob with sadness, and his heart completely plummet. He took Steve’s hand in his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze. That seemed to calm Steve at least some, as he looked up at Bucky through long damp eyelashes, and gave him the most pitiful of all smiles.

“They signed up for the Army, Steve. They knew what they were getting into and I guess you just have to respect that,” Bucky attempts to reason.

Steve glances down at their entwined hands, and then back at Bucky with a smile. “I know. Sometimes it just gets so hard. When I first came back that’s all I could think about. I could hardly get out of bed most days. Sam, he saved my life. I met him at the VA and he basically talked some sense into me. Got me to go get help. I owe him everything. Without him… I don’t know. I’d probably be dead.”

A force unknown to Bucky hit him square in the stomach at Steve’s words. Just the thought of someone as wonderful as Steve being at a position where he was so completely low, to the point he was considering taking his own life, was just so heartbreaking. Selfishly too, he couldn’t imagine having not met Steve. His life until this point seemed to be stagnant. Stuck in a place that was not his worst, but still in a life that drained him, that made him want to die. Steve, he just made everything better.

“Buck? Are you okay?” Steve’s voice is soft, and a calloused finger brushes against his skin startling him. Steve brushes his thumb across his cheek, and that’s when Bucky realizes he’s crying.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Bucky felt so foolish, as he wiped at his eyes futility, as despite his wants, sobs wracked through his body. “I’m so stupid.”

“Hey, no. No. You aren’t stupid.” Steve pulls him close to him, allowing him to hide his face against Steve’s chest. He doesn’t deserve this, the way Steve rubbed his back and comforted him when it was him who should be comforting Steve. He’s just never felt emotion like this for another person. So raw and encompassing, it runs through his entire body.

“You-You’re just so ki-kind and, and, you’re one of the best people I-I’ve ever met and I-I feel so naïve and foolish, but I-I think I think I love you,” Bucky sobbed, his voice hitching often as he could barely get air into his lungs.

Steve grabs him by the shoulders pulling him away so they can look eye to eye. “Feeling emotions isn’t stupid, or foolish. Maybe, we both are a bit naïve, and maybe we have fallen too fast and this won’t last, but let’s try. Let’s just try. That’s all we can do. Right? So, I guess I’m saying I love you too.”

Bucky’s entire world stopped spinning upon Steve’s confession. To be so perfectly accepted by this man who he deemed so much greater than himself was something that he never considered. His heart pattered inside his chest at a rapid pace, as Steve cupped his jaw with his hand, and brushed a gentle kiss upon his lips. Once he pulled away Bucky couldn’t help but let out a relieved and broken gasp. He threw his arms around Steve’s neck with such enthusiasm the couch tilted backwards threatening to completely topple. Steve burst out in laughter that shook both their bodies, his arms coming to protectively wrap around Bucky’s waist.

The two had cuddled, honest to God cuddled, together on the old little couch feeding each other homemade mashed potatoes and gravy. Even though that may not be the sexiest of foods it still made Bucky’s heart flutter with need. It was all amazingly domestic, the complete opposite of what Alexander Pierce had harped on and on about the “homosexual lifestyle” that was all just degrading sex in some kind of underground dungeon.

The Twilight Zone flickered on the television, but Bucky was far too engrossed by the texture of Steve’s skin, and the color that made up it. The creamy white, and a light flush pink splotched in the places that were once resting on the rough fabric of the couch. Bucky’s fingers twitched, then with what appeared to be a mind of their own, reached over and brushed Steve’s cheek. His skin was hot and smooth under Bucky’s cold fingers.

He crawled his way onto Steve’s lap straddling him, Steve’s thighs hard and muscular underneath him. He looks at Bucky with wide eyes, and flushed cheeks causing him to shake under his attention. His chest heaves as he moves closer into Steve’s space, nervous fingers tracing lines against his cheek.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers, forehead resting against Steve’s. “Handsome.”

He brushes his lips against Steve’s, hoping the other man can’t feel the slight tremble in his movement. He pulls away to look Steve in the eyes, noticing his pupils had darkened. “Your skin the way it flushes under my touch is mesmerizing.”

“How you feel underneath me.” He kisses him again harder, and longer than before. He savors the taste of it, growing more aroused and anxious with each and every movement. Tinkering on and off the brink of wanting to delve further into physical touch, but yet still too terrified to make the leap. “Strong. Unmoving. Safe.”

“Buck,” Steve moans, bucking his hips up in search of extra friction. Bucky bites down on Steve’s lip sucking on it, as Steve pulls at his shirt. His stomach grew tight churning uncomfortably, his shaking increasing growing more noticeable. He slumps forward head falling against Steve’s chest as his body shivers violently.

“Hey, baby? You okay?” Steve’s voice is concerned, a touch fearful. His hands running up and down Bucky’s back are full of uncertainty.

Bucky’s attempt to answer is weak, nothing but garbled air comes out as his lungs feel too tight. He just allows himself to be held by Steve. The willingness to care for him, despite knowing so little regarding his predicament just adds to his distress, yet just knowing he was there and steady was enough to calm him.

“I love you,” Steve soothes, rubbing his back and kissing the top of his hair.

“Thank you,” Is all Bucky can say. _If a man lies with a male as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them._ Is all he can think.

The days following Thanksgiving are a bit of a downward spiral. He cancels his appointment with Dr. Potts, cancels all of his tutoring sessions for the week, ignores all of the texts and calls coming into his phone, and doesn’t show up to art class. He feels himself slipping back into the shell of the person he used to be back when he was fresh to the world outside of Alexander Pierce.

He had spent the first three years trying to start a life for himself. Reinvent who he was. He went on dates with cute young girls he had met at the college. Even going as far as sticking a hand under one of his date’s skirts at one point. They were sitting in her car in the parking lot of a movie theater. He had only done it to appease the cruel voice in his head berating him, demeaning him. She had been quick to slap his hand away, and he had cried in the front seat silently praying for forgiveness.   

Now he’s found himself on his knees by his bed every night staring mutely at the wall. His thoughts not much more than the darkness of a black hole. There was combat inside of him. Two conflicting ideals attacking one another destroying him in their wake. His left side stung, as though the scars that adorned his skin had reopened and were bleeding through his shirt. He stared at the wall building up courage to smite God.

_It was his fourteenth birthday, and he was locked in a room that was empty but for a naked mattress on the concrete floor and a Bible beside it. He was curled up on the mattress, knees under his chin, as he sobbed. He was scared, and uncertain as to what his punishment was to be, or what he had even done to warrant being locked away like this._

_He’s heard the rumors from the other children of being locked away in these rooms. Forced to read through Scripture for hours on end without food or water, but he hadn’t had anything wrong. It was his birthday, and he hadn’t done anything wrong. The sound of the many locks being undone caught his attention making his heart beat faster to the point it hurt his chest. He tried to even his breathing and stop the tears, but they just came faster dripping hotly down his face._

_The heavy door was pushed open and Alexander Pierce appeared with a smile, and a present wrapped in shiny blue paper. Closing the door behind him the older man kneeled next to the sobbing boy, and placed a hand behind his head._

_“I always knew you were too soft,” He told Bucky, his voice gentle and condescending. “The way you used to dance around on your tip toes, and bat your eyes at your mother. It wasn’t hard to tell.”_

_“Si-Sir?” Bucky sniffed._

_“Open your present,” Pierce had insisted pushing the gift into Bucky’s lap. Bucky hesitated rustling the wrapping in his grip. “Go ahead, James.”_

_When he had torn the paper off with shaky fingers he was met with the glossy cover of a magazine donning a shirtless man on the cover. His eyes had all about popped out of his head, and he had looked at Pierce with shock. “Wha-What is this?”_

_“Why don’t we look through it, hm? See if there’s anything in there you like,” Pierce’s voice was so kind when he suggested this, that it just makes Bucky feel even sicker upon remembering._

_Pierce had flipped the pages for him. Each page displaying attractive men in various stages of undress, or performing sex acts together. Bucky was so confused and young, and these images had made something in his stomach twist and turn in a way that he had never felt. His penis was growing erect, and he knew that wasn’t allowed. Masturbation wasn’t allowed. It was a sin. It was wrong. Yet he kept feeling a nervous excitement that he found himself nearly enjoying._

_“You like your gift?” Pierce had asked. “Don’t lie to me, James.”_

_Bucky’s face was flushed as he just stared at Pierce. He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how. Pierce had seemed to catch on to the fact, as he shook his head in disappointment._

_“Take your clothes off James,” He had commanded._

_“Wha-what?”_

_“Now!” He shouted with a force that Bucky had never witnessed and he was quick after that to rid himself of his clothing. He shivered, naked on the mattress completely exposed to this man. It left a vile taste in his mouth._

_The magazine was placed in front of him again, and he was told to turn the pages, to look as he pleased. With no barrier, no way to hide his shame was completely on view. He wasn’t trying to get aroused. He didn’t mean to. He really didn’t._

_The glint of the blade caught his eye a moment too late and the first of many cuts was sliced across his naked side._

_“Their blood shall be upon them,” Alexander Pierce had spoken, voice deep and vicious. “We’re going to be doing this until you understand that, James.”_

“Fuck you,” Bucky croaks at the wall voice weak. A sob rips through him, and with all his force he screams, to God, Jesus, whoever the fuck is listening. “Fuck you!”

Bucky had trudged into Dr. Potts’ office looking as though death had become him, and feeling as though it had too. He now sits across from her, something that has become so familiar and even welcomed. This time, however, he was not as optimistic as he once was.

“How have you been lately?” Dr. Potts asks, with her friendly smile.

"I want to have sex with Steve," Bucky blurts. His face flushes hot, and he drops his head in embarrassment after he realizes what he just said. 

Dr. Potts, God bless her polished professional heart, didn't miss a beat. "That can be a big decision for any relationship. How do you feel about it?" 

There's a flash from a distant time. A memory that creeps in the back of his mind. A dark cloud that constantly surrounds the edges of his existence. He tries to push it away. He tries to forget it, but it's got its claw sunk so deep into him it passes just skin and bone and mars him deep into his soul. A permanent scar that continues to ache to this day. 

"Bucky?" Dr. Potts asks, her voice, as it's done so many times before, bringing him back from inside his head. 

"I-I," Bucky stutters. This is his secret. The one thing he's never told anyone else. It burns his entire body, a slow grueling torture. 

"I kissed him. He was so polite. So nice. So Steve," Bucky laughs wetly. "It felt really nice. To be kissed. Really kissed. It was like for a split second everything was perfect. No one else in the world existed. It was just me and Steve, and a forgiving universe."

"Then it just all came back. My hands were shaking. They were shaking so bad. I thought that I was gonna hurl right onto Steve's shoes. I just kept hearing his voice. Feeling his hands all over me. It hurt. It hurt so bad. I didn't wanna remember it. I don't wanna. I don't wanna."

"Bucky." Dr. Potts' voice is so soft and gentle. Gentler than he's ever heard her use before. The soft tone of it makes him realize just how frantic his breathing has become; near hyperventilation. 

"When we go through bad things, traumatic things, they change us a person. You have to remember, though, that those things that happened are in the past. You're here now, and those things they can no longer hurt you. However, before you can do that I think you need to acknowledge your trauma first." 

"His mom is dead," Bucky whispers instead. "His mom is dead, and he's so hurt from the war. He's so hurt. He doesn't need my extra baggage weighing him down."

Dr. Potts clears her throat, a stern sign of irritation. "Bucky. Steve is a grown man he can make his own decisions. If it's any consolation I do believe he's quite set on you." 

Bucky chuckles to himself a bit, as her advice reminds him of his own advice he gave to Steve. He clasps his hands in his lap, squeezing his fingers together until his knuckles turned white. He had kept this inside of himself for so long; his dirty little secret. Just the thought of it made bile rise up in his throat. He attempted to even his staggering breath, and tugged at his hair with his left hand. 

"Something bad happened," He finally whispers. 

Bucky was raised to believe in purity. That sex was purely for reproduction, and not for pleasure. This was a sentiment that wasn’t beaten into Bucky nearly as hard as it was to his sisters, especially his younger sister. She was thirteen when he left. A month before his eighteenth birthday, on Valentine’s Day to be exact, the church held their annual Chastity Ball. This was Rebecca’s debuting year, and she was adorned in a modest fluffy white gown with white satin gloves to match. She looked so beautiful, and grown up, but her face was just filled with adolescent fear. That seemed to be the only thing Alexander Pierce was good at; instilling fear.

Bucky remembers how his heart shattered when Rebecca crawled into bed with him that night and sobbed into his chest all because she had held hands with Jacob Gaines last year at the Fall Festival. She had cried about how she was dirty, and tainted. How she had let sin overcome her, and now she was no longer pure. She was a thirteen year old kid, who was too manipulated to believe in anything else than what she was told. The horrible thing was he could do very little too comfort her at that time, because he was just as brainwashed.

When he left, he left Becca behind, and all the rules that were beat into his head, or at least he tried to forgo himself of those rules. His mother had hugged him, and slipped a few hundred dollar bills into his back pocket, her own act of rebellion. Then he took his first steps into a free world. He had, ambitiously, taken a bus all the way from Illinois to New York, with the meager amount of money he had in his pocket. He had found his apartment, the one he still lived in now, way outside of the city. It was the cheapest place, the crappiest place too, but in that moment he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere but there.

At least that was one of the many lies he told himself. It absolutely sickens him to admit that on those first few days, maybe even years, he wanted nothing but to go back home. Back to his mother who was practically his entire world. Back to his sister who had begged him with sloppy tears falling down her face not to go. He had been told all his life that the world was scary. That it was full of demons, degeneracy, and sin. There was no Godliness outside of his little world that Alexander Pierce kept in a tightly sealed vacuum, and he was scared. He was scared.

It seemed cruel, like the world was playing a trick on him, that when he was finally, finally, happy with his life all of these haunting old memories would start trickling back into the forefronts of his mind. It had taken him years to master the art of repressing certain memories. The ones that were burnt onto the inside of his eyelids. That he saw vividly in the night, like a boogie man awaiting him from under the bed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Dr. Potts questions.

Bucky swallows, his mouth feeling uncomfortably dry, “When I was uh, when I was seventeen I uh. I-I was raped.”

“Do you want to tell me about that experience?” Dr. Potts asks him. “You don’t have to today. I’m proud of you for telling me.”

“Pierce took me to D.C with him on a, uh, a trip. He was involved in some political stuff I guess. He knew about me being, uh, being gay and he didn’t like it. Of course. Uh, we stayed at a hotel. He-he. He,” Bucky furrows his eyebrows, as he tries to suppress the tears that threaten to overcome him.

“Take your time, Bucky,” Dr. Potts reassures.

“He brought this guy to our room. Brock. He was a prostitute. And he, he, was payed to uh, to have sex with me. To teach me a lesson. How bad gay sex hurt, because it’s unnatural and created by the Devil.” Despite his best efforts the mistiness in his eyes grows too much, and tears begin to fall down his cheeks. “I thought he’d be nice. Cause I was screamin’ and, and cryin’. I was so scared. I didn’t want it. And I was bleedin’ everywhere. But he just, he just kept goin’ and ignorin’ me. I just want to feel good. I don’t want to always remember that when I’m with Steve.”

“Bucky, Steve isn’t Brock or Pierce,” Dr. Potts reminds him. “You need to talk with Steve about your rape to develop boundaries, and to discover a plan for intimacy that works for the both of you together.”

“I’m scared that when I tell him he won’t want me anymore,” Bucky confides.

“Steve, he is a friend of mine and I know that he would never think less of you for this. You can’t do this alone and confiding in people you trust will help you tremendously.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out. “Yeah, okay.”

Arriving back at his apartment, Bucky’s nerves were frayed. He attempted to just go to sleep, but all he could do is wallow in his sheets his thoughts too loud to allow sleep. Grabbing his phone he opened the home screen and stared at his contacts. Dr. Potts had told him to try and tell Natasha about his past. That doing a test run, so to speak, may help ease his anxieties about telling Steve. He doubted that it would help in that way, but having Natasha know… That didn’t seem so bad.

He was scared though to even say the words out loud, not sure if he could trust himself to do so. His thumb hovered over her contact until the screen turned black. With a sigh he threw his phone onto the couch and made his way into his bedroom closing the door behind him.

Bucky way awoken from his dreamless sleep by someone banging violently on his door.

“It’s been over a fucking week, Barnes! You better come open this Goddamn door right now!” It was Natasha.

“Hey, Nat,” Bucky greets sheepishly as he opens the door for her.

She’s got her arms crossed with a scowl on her face, “Where the fuck have you been? You’ve been ignoring everyone’s texts and calls. You didn’t show up for game night, and Steve’s been a wreck. You’re a real asshole you know?”

“What’d he tell you?” Bucky swallows, emotion bubbling up inside of him.

“That he had the most amazing Thanksgiving. That he loves you. That you said the same, and then started ignoring him like the fucking plague. Seriously Barnes? I know you haven’t exactly done this before, but telling a guy you love him and then ignoring him isn’t the way to fucking go,” Natasha scolds, her voice angry.

“Bucky, you really fucked up. Sam had to call me to help console Steve when he showed up at Sam’s place drunk.”

Just the thought of Steve upset. Crying so hard his face was red, all because of what he had done was enough to break his heart. He felt himself go pale, swaying on his feet. Natasha’s eyes go wide, and she places her hands on his shoulders to steady him.

“What’s going on with you, Yasha?” Her voice is softer now, worried.

They linger there still for a moment. The confession lingering on the tip of his tongue, burning him. His heart is beating so loudly in his ears he almost can’t hear himself when he finally says it.

“I was raped.” It comes out in one breath that almost knocks him to the floor.

“What?” Natasha whispers.

“When I was seventeen.”

Bucky’s scared to look at her. He feels like he’s going to hurl, and his heart is pounding so hard against his chest he’s sure it’s going to burst. He’s abruptly pulled against Natasha’s body her arms squeezing him tightly. He peaks up at her and she has tears running down her cheeks. She shakes her head, whispering that she loves him in Russian and clutching at his shirt. He’s never seen her like this before. So, open with how she’s feeling. She’s never been one that was willing to show her emotions tending to push them down and keep a stony composure. Seeing her like this makes his heart swell at the fact that she cares about him so much.

“You need to talk to Steve, Bucky,” She tells him, after they’ve pulled away. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, and runs the other hand through her hair. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready for a relationship yet, but you can’t string Steve along if you aren’t.”

Bucky sighs, and plops down on the couch. “I want to be in a relationship, and I want to have sex with Steve, but I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“I-I don’t know,” Bucky croaks.

“You just need to talk to Steve. I’m sure he’ll be understanding,” She reassures. “And if he isn’t you’ll always have me. You’ll always have me.”

“Thank you, Nat. I love you.”

“I love you too, Yasha.”

The yellow dripped down the canvas mixing with the blue to create a light green color that dripped down like raindrops across the white canvas in front of him. His fingers caked in sticky paint, as he dragged them along creating shaky lines of paint.

“It looks sad,” Came a voice beside him. It was Steve. His heart began to race, as Steve leaned in closer to inspect his painting. “Yet, there’s something forgiving, perhaps, hidden in the sorrow.”

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, turning on his stool so he is facing the other man. He can tell Steve is trying his hardest to keep an even face, but the way his eye twitches slightly indicates the feelings that are hidden inside. “I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. I meant it when I said I love you. I just. I have some things I need to tell you.”

It’s almost as though he can feel the stress being lifted off of Steve’s shoulders. He completely deflates with a sigh, and a smile. “Come home with me. We’ll talk.”

“Okay.”

“I love you too, Bucky,” Steve tells him before walking away to assist someone.

Steve’s apartment was homey. Art hanging on warm beige color walls, and think soft carpet on the floor. Bucky was cuddled into the corner of Steve’s couch with a hot cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Steve mirrored his position on the other end of the couch, both of them more intent on staring into their mugs than at one another.

“I left the day I turned eighteen,” Bucky breaks the silence. He keeps his eyes downcast to avoid any looks Steve may give him. “My sister cried and begged me to stay, but I just couldn’t. Pierce, he was planning on shipping me off to Siberia to some missionary camp. When I was little he would lock me in the meat freezer for hours. Once it was so bad that my fingers and toes turned blue and I had to go to the hospital. The doctors thought they would have to amputate them.”

“Buck,” Steve whispers, with so much pain in his voice it’s as if he can feel the agony along with him.

“He gave me a gay porn magazine when I turned fourteen. He would make me look at it naked, and if I got hard he would take a knife and cut me until it went away.”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “Bucky.”

“When I was seventeen he took me to D.C. and payed a prostitute to rape me. He wanted me to learn how bad gay sex hurt.” Bucky lets out a dry spiteful chuckle. “Boy did I learn that. You make me feel so good Steve. So good. But I’m scared to go any further. Scared it’s going to hurt. Scared you won’t want me.”

“No,” Steve bites catching Bucky off guard.

 “Wha-what?”

“That wasn’t sex. What happened to you wasn’t sex. It was rape. Sex is supposed to feel good. It shouldn’t hurt ever.”

 “St-Steve, I-I,” Bucky stutters but is interrupted by Steve taking his mug and placing it on the coffee table before pulling him into his arms. His presence is warm and comforting.

 “I love you, Bucky. You’re so brave for telling me this. Thank you, baby. I want to make you feel good. Just tell me what you want to do and I’ll hold you through it,” Steve whispers to him lips brushing against his skin. “Just be honest with me, baby.”

 “C-Can I, uh, suck you off,” Bucky mutters with a flustered blush.

 Steve pulls away from him, keeping a hand on his face. “You would want to do that?”   

  “I-I think so. I think I would like being in control like that,” Bucky tells him. “I-I’m not ready for you to, uh, touch me, but I like, uh, when you feel good. It makes me feel good too.”

 “There’s no need to rush anything,” Steve tells him, voice tentative.      

 “I-I want to.”

It happens so fast. His world becomes tilted, dizzying, and he’s not sure how he even ends up on his knees in front of Steve nervous fingers working on unbuttoning Steve’s jeans. Steve keeps a large hand on the back of his neck, thumb pressing down on his skin reassuringly.

When he finally pulls Steve’s cock out of his pants he stops breathing. He sits there staring at it, lips between his teeth, until Steve says his name concern laced in his words.

 “S-Sorry.” Bucky silently curses the way his voice is shakier than he expected.

“We don’t have to do this, Bucky. We can stop anytime you want. Just say so, and we can go back to cuddling on the couch,” Steve reminds him.

 “No, no. I-I want to do this. I’m fine.”

He did. He wanted to do this more than anything. He wanted to bring Steve pleasure. To see his face when he felt good. To thrive off of the fact that he’s the one who gets to make him feel that way. The very idea of it is electrifying, sending shocks down Bucky’s spine that find their way straight to his groin.   

Gently, he wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock slowly moving his hand up and down the shaft.

 “That’s good baby,” Steve hisses.

 Bucky leans forward, looking up at Steve for reassurance. Steve nods at him, and squeezes the back of his neck. The first tentative lick causes Steve’s breath to hitch, which only encourages him to lick broader strokes across the length of his member.

“Fuck,” Steve moans, his head thrown back.

When Bucky takes him into his mouth Steve lets out a long deep moan that sends shivers through Bucky’s body. Everything about Steve at this moment was so completely erotic. The way Steve gripped at his hair and tugged lightly when he moaned. The way he said his name through breathy sighs, and the way he called him baby.

“F-fuck, Buck. Baby. I-I’m gonna cum,” Steve moans, hips stuttering slightly.

Bucky pulls off Steve’s cock to wrap his hand back around the shaft leaning in to give small teasing licks.

 “God, fuck. Baby, baby I’m coming.”

 Steve releases on Bucky’s hand with a long moan, and then folds onto his knees in front of Bucky wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight.

“I love you,” He tells him, peppering kisses across his neck, sucking gently at the skin. “Don’t shut me out like that again. I will never judge you Bucky. I love you, baby. I do.”

“I won’t. I promise. I love you, too.” Bucky’s voice is full of vulnerability, but there’s a strength that came along with it. A strength in allowing himself to be so completely exposed to a person, but knowing that they are doing the same thing in return is comforting. That together, he and Steve are creating something that despite everything he was raised to believe is beautiful. This was all he could have ever wanted, and her it was wrapped around him.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really contemplated adding the rape, but through all my research on religious cults that was almost always something that was involved and I wanted this story to be as accurate as possible. This is easily the darkest thing I've ever written and I cried a lot while writing it, but I hope it payed off in the end.  
> Thanks for reading xx


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